<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>If I Were The Sun by magnoliafilms</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28366695">If I Were The Sun</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnoliafilms/pseuds/magnoliafilms'>magnoliafilms</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Musicians, Mutual Pining, Non-binary character, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Referenced smoking, Underage Drinking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:00:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,532</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28366695</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnoliafilms/pseuds/magnoliafilms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Renjun takes to the stage, it’s easy to forget about the life he has behind it. And when the band takes their places behind him, Dejun strumming out the beginning chords and Yangyang setting the steady underlying beat, it feels like his heart. Pulsing, forcing warming blood through his veins. Lucas plucks out the baseline, and his fringe drops into his eyes and Renjun laughs as the crowd screams in response. Chenle presses his hands to the keys and spins out arpeggiated synths that blend seamlessly with Dejun’s guitar.</p><p>This is Heart!Breaker. </p><p>And this is a story in two parts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Huang Ren Jun/Mark Lee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>NCTV Secret Santa 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/drmroses/gifts">drmroses</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you for your prompts, all three of them were so delicious and I was so wildly tempted by the other two that I had half finished outlines for both of them. For this prompt though, I ended up completely throwing myself into it. I felt like I was writing for myself.<br/>Not only did I create TWO playlists for this, but also album covers for both of our artists. (I'll link them after reveals.)<br/>Apologies for the "incomplete" aspect, I promise I'm trying my absolute hardest to get out the last two chapters. And I /know/ you asked for this one to be fluffy and I'm also so sorry that what I could manage for now feels so angsty, I promise better things will come.</p><p>In terms of the dates... They don't really matter, they only provide a rough timeline of events, so feel free to ignore them.<br/>I genuinely had so much fun writing this and I hope you love it as much as I do.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>If I were the sun</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>And you were the sky</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>I’d never set. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>I’d hover above</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The edge of the water</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Waiting for you</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>To shine your stars</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>On me so I could </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>become bigger</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Than what I am.</span>
  <span></span><br/>

  <span>I am brighter</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>When I’m with you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>— Christy Ann Martine</span>
</p><p> </p>
<h6>December 2nd, 2020: Heart Of Glass
</h6><p>
  <span>When Renjun takes to the stage, it’s easy to forget about the life he has behind it. There's something beautiful about the way the crowd and the lights make him someone else. The sensation of the music swelling around him and the easy way he falls into character. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the band takes their places behind him, Dejun strumming out the beginning chords and Yangyang setting the steady underlying beat. It feels like his heart. Pulsing, forcing warming blood through his veins. Lucas plucks out the baseline, his fringe drops into his eyes and Renjun laughs as the crowd screams in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chenle presses his hands to the keys and spins out arpeggiated synths that blend seamlessly with Dejun’s guitar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s new —a glittering stratocaster, shiny and red. Dejun bought it three days ago in anticipation for this show —the biggest they’ve played since they got signed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun lifts the microphone to his lips, gazing out at a brilliant ocean. He sways, getting a feel for the beat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s everyone doing tonight?” He asks, and is met with yet another expected scream from the crowd. He laughs again, “Good, good. It’s great to see you all out here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hums into the mic, turning slightly to make eye contact with Dejun, who nods, picking out a familiar riff. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We thought we’d start this one out with an old favourite.” There’s another incorrigible scream from the crowd, “If you know it, sing along.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps onto the part of the stage that’s marked with a cross, and when Yangyang hits the crash cymbals, he begins to rise. They all do. Panels of the stage lift up to raise every member into the air. It’s something they spent a long time choreographing with the stage engineer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the opening lines begin to fall from his mouth, Renjun looks out —scanning a sea of unrecognisable faces. He thinks of a time when he was younger, when he could only imagine being on a stage like this, when Heart!Breaker was little more than a dream formed in a school practice room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Once found love and it was a gas.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun leans into their own mic, breathes out harmonies they’ve spent hours practicing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd eats it up. It’s one of the songs that got them famous in the first place —an amped up cover of Chenle’s favourite Blondie song—and where try-hard fans will claim it’s “over-played” or “mainstream,” it’ll always have a special place in their hearts. After all, they started out as a cover band.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun sings like his life depends on it, because it does. It’s like breathing or sleeping. Something he needs to survive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lungs burn as he holds the final note of the song, Dejun weaving in ad libs in the background. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He checks the set list, then takes a swig from his water bottle and lets Chenle speak to the crowd. Overtime, it’s become easy, they fall into the same patterns over and over again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They break into the next song, this one faster paced, racing through the setlist in record time. Renjun sings his heart out during </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hiccup</span>
  </em>
  <span>, looking out into the crowd for a face he knows he won’t find, but is inevitably there.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They end the song, wave goodbye to the fans, and as expected, are quickly brought back on stage to bring the whole show to a crashing close with an encore of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dead Boys</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they finally end the show, Renjun practically throws himself down the stairs backstage. There’s only one person he wants to see. He wonders if he actually managed to make it back there, but when they lock eyes, it’s only a matter of seconds before Renjun’s tossing himself into Mark’s arms.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h6> September 18th, 2018: Complicated — <em><span>Renjun</span></em>
</h6><p>
  <span>There’s a bitter chill in the air that tends to come with most autumn mornings and Renjun shivers against the cold. He’d forgotten his gloves, and his pockets aren’t nearly deep enough to stick his hands in to ward off the cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not entirely sure why he still walks to school, even in the colder months. His mother has offered to drive him enough times, and yet for some reason, he still says no. Every time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it’s under some strange motive of self-hate. Or an attempt to make himself feel something other than stress and loneliness. He’s waiting to cross the street, having already pressed the button on his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally the light turns green and he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, trying his hardest to ward off what little cold he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps out into the middle of the road. The walk to his school isn’t far, just a few blocks away, and he’s made the journey enough times to know the way like the back of his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But today he stops. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other side, crudely stapled to an old power pole, is a flyer. It’s a printed sheet of A4, and the maker clearly didn’t consider laminating it as the wind and rain of the season have taken their toll, causing the ink to bleed all over the page.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds it endearing, the way the colours blend together, blues and greens and yellows all mashed together on the page, bordered by thick stripes of black text. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps closer. At the bottom are strips intending for people to be taken. A few are crudely torn off, and it’s irritating how untidy it looks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sign above reads:</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Singing Lessons and Musical Tutoring!</b>
  <b><br/>
</b>
  <span>Interested in private tutoring for the instrument of your choice? Check out TheStudioU.com or call us on the number below.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>We offer Vocal and Guitar training as well as Bass, Drumming and Keyboard lessons!</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Contact Us Today.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Renjun isn’t sure why he does it, and the time shining at the top of his phone shows that his dalliance will make him late to school if he isn’t careful. But he tears a piece of paper from the bottom. Carefully, so that he doesn’t ruin it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he moves on, shoving his hands back in his pockets and making his way to school. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<h6>September 20th, 2018: Lonely Star — <em><span>Mark</span></em>
</h6><p>
  <span>Mark has passed the second hand shop on the corner more times than he can count. But never has he seen a guitar in the front window. Until </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it had always been there and he’d just never bothered to go inside to see. The thick layer of dust on the dark wood of the head seems to say it had been sitting there for long enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops his skateboard, dragging his foot on the damp concrete in an attempt to slow down, and stands there just looking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s by no standards in excellent condition, but she’s a beautiful chestnut colour and the midday light hits her in just the right way that makes her seem like the find of the century. A second hand —perhaps third-or-fourth considering the cheap price on the tacky paper tag that hangs around her neck— acoustic Taylor, with a corroded set of steel strings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never had a guitar of his own, usually collecting one of the school’s practice nylon-strings and hiding out in the music block. His parents were more inclined towards the idea of piano lessons, and so after at least six years of classical training, he felt he had more than enough theoretical knowledge to pick up a second instrument. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picks up his skateboard with one hand, uses the other to push open the front door of the second hand shop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello?” He calls out, it’s weirdly quiet inside, though he supposes it’s four-thirty on a Thursday afternoon… Not exactly everyone’s prime thrifting time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t see anyone at the counter, but notices a narrow door positioned almost directly behind the register that’s been pushed open a couple inches. There’s a startled yelp at the sound of his voice and he hears the concerning sound of something clattering heavily to the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something shuffles around behind the door, and he narrows his eyes. They’re slightly irritated since he chose to wear his contacts today, but he can make out a shadowy figure through the gap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything ok?” He tries uncertainly, taking a few steps forwards, skateboard banging against his leg as he goes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door swings open sharply and he jumps back, nearly hitting a rack of old vinyl records with his board in the process. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man stands in the doorway, hair slightly mussed and name tag askew. Mark squints a little, but still can’t quite work out what it says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just peachy!” The guy says, straightening his shirt and running a hand through his hair. “Sorry ‘bout the noise. Wasn’t really expecting anyone in today, so I was shifting around some stuff out the back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Mark says. On second glance, the guy can’t be much older than he is —maybe only a year or two out of high school. His hair’s recently been dyed a fresh coral colour, and he’s got what looks like the beginnings of a sleeve tattoo poking out from underneath a navy bowling shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I help you with something?” He says, and Mark has to take a moment to reshuffle his brain because </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn</span>
  </em>
  <span> this guy’s attractive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah.” Mark finally manages, sounding every bit as eloquent as three years of language skills would allow people to expect, “The Taylor? In the window?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guy steps closer and Mark notices how his face lights up. He can read the name on his badge now; </span>
  <b>Jaehyun.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“So are you studying music?” Jaehyun says as he moves to take the guitar from the stand in the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark shakes his head, his parents believed that music was for recreation and his time in class should be used more productively. “Was planning on teaching myself…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun shoots a look at him, “You’re brave.” He lifts his hands defensively, having placed the Taylor down on the counter, “Not that I’m judging you or anything. I just don’t think I could manage that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark shrugs, focusing on the guitar. “I’m not really supposed to spend my time on music.” He confesses quietly as Jaehyun rings him up, “Can’t really ask them to pay my parents to pay for lessons for something they think is a waste of time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun’s hands still as he opens the register. He stops, and looks at Mark properly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heard of The Studio?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark frowns, shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun nods and opens a few drawers and pulls out two sheets of paper. The first is a brightly coloured page. Jaehyun puts it into Mark’s open hand and nods as he closes his fingers around it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That there,” he says, “Is a flyer for a practice space called The Studio. A couple of the members in my band decided to start giving out lessons as a way to pay for recording and performance equipment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark stares, taking in the printed letters. The fee isn’t expensive, but he’s not sure where he’d even get the money to pay for them in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun steps in and presses the second piece of paper into Mark’s hand. “And this one, is an application form for a job here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Mark says, utterly confused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun pushes forwards, “If you’re serious about music, and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get lessons from someone, </span>
  <em>
    <span>apply</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The pay here isn’t fantastic, but it’s enough to pay for the lesson fee and still have some money left over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would they even employ </span>
  <em>
    <span>me?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mark asks incredulously, he’s still staring down at the two pieces of paper in his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun smirks. “Literally</span>
  <em>
    <span> no one</span>
  </em>
  <span> wants to work here, there’s like a total of three employees. The bossman will jump at the opportunity to get another kid like yourself on board.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what to say…” Mark mumbles, taking in two deep breaths and refusing to meet Jaehyun’s eyes. Finally, he looks up, “Thank you.” He says earnestly, and he doesn’t think he’s ever meant anything more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t mention it…” Jaehyun looks at him expectantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mark.” He says, sticking out a hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun takes it and shakes it firmly. He points at his name tag, “Jaehyun. But I’m sure you’d already got that one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark laughs, surprising himself with how easily he found it to talk to Jaehyun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need a case for this old girl, Mark?” Jaehyun says, pointing at the Taylor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark nods, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket. He had some cash from mowing his neighbour’s lawns and hoped that that was enough to cover the total.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun steps back into that room behind the counter and comes out carrying a battered black canvas case. “This was the one it came in. A little worse for wear but i reckon it’ll do the trick…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifts the guitar by the neck and places it gently inside the case. He hums, seeming satisfied with the fit. “Those strings are gonna need replacing though…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark frowns. New strings could be expensive and he didn’t know if he had enough to cover them. Perhaps he’d have to make a start without them and hope to god he managed to get the job here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun —like the saviour he was— simply tapped the sheet of paper Mark was still holding. “I’ll get you a set. If you stop by on Saturday to drop this in, I can have some by then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark stares at him open mouthed, “You really don’t have to–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun shakes his head, “Seriously, Mark. It’s no big deal. Besides, you can pay me back when you get a job here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun reads out his total and Mark fishes out the cash from his wallet and hands it over. He zips up the case on the guitar and slings it over his shoulder. Taking his skateboard from where he’d leant it up against the counter, he made sure he had both slips of paper folded up in his pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun walks him to the door, chatting as they go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you teach at The Studio?” Mark asks, glancing at Jaehyun as he pushes open the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do. But I play bass. Yuta will probably end up teaching you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark narrows his eyes. More people to meet… Just his cup of tea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun laughs at the expression Mark makes, “Don’t worry, dude.” He says easily, “Yuta’ll take care of you, he’s good at what he does.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark hums, unconvinced. He steps outside, placing his skateboard down on the pavement, making sure the guitar was strapped on firmly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun waves as he pushes off, “I’ll see you around, Mark. Saturday, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waving an arm behind him, Mark turns back to shout one last “Thank you” over his shoulder as he goes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He misses the grin that Jaehyun shoots his way when he nearly slips in a puddle. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<h6>September 21st, 2018: Come On Mess Me Up — <em><span>Renjun</span></em>
</h6><p>
  <span>Renjun lies awake. The strip of paper sits in his jacket pocket and he hasn’t tried to look at it since he tore it from the flyer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had told his mother about it when he got home and surprisingly, she seemed rather encouraging.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just have to do these things, darling.” She’d said, “It isn’t worth stressing over because you didn’t take a chance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s thought about this enough times. Trying to make something out of himself. Maybe trying his hand at songwriting. This would be the first in a long line of steps he’d need to take to make something like that happen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes back the bed covers, and sits himself upright. On socked feet, he crosses the room quietly and puts his hand into the pocket of his jacket, hung carelessly over the back of his desk chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The paper is crinkled around the edges, and there’s a few spots of mysterious grease dotted around the edges. It’s not entirely whole and perfect like he’d hoped. He smooths out the creases with strangely shaking fingers and reaches for his phone where it lies on his bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why is he so nervous?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He sucks in a breath and types in the phone number into the bar at the top of his message. This is supposed to be the easy part.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Outgoing</b>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Hi, My name’s Renjun Huang and I’m looking for a vocal coach. I was wondering if you had any available teaching spots?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t seem quite right, but he stares at it for a few moments until he presses send before he can convince himself to delete it. Maybe it’s just that he feels like a fraud. Like he’s not cut out for being a singer. Or the type of guy who makes music. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls out his journal —a raggedy old thing that’s practically falling apart at the bindings. He needs a new one really. But it feels strange to part with something so sentimental. Especially when so much of him is confined within its pages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits himself on the ground and thumbs through the pages. Through lyrics and poems. Thoughts and bits and pieces of drawings. Sometimes there’s just a single word on a page.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Lighthouse</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And he wonders what he was thinking when he put it there. He picks up his old acoustic guitar. Strums out a chord progression he’s worked on his whole life. He chooses a page at random.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe today he’ll work out how to fit words to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I could be anybody—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops. The words feel wrong in his mouth. Like his tongue is too large to get them out in time. He switches tactics, flicking through the pages to try and find a specific part. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A song he’s worked at before. Perhaps he just isn’t ready for the other one yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps quiet, knowing that if he’s too loud, he’ll wake his mother up. She’ll be less upset about the fact that he’s awake so late in the evening and more so about the fact that her sleep was disrupted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picks at the weathered strings softly, humming along with each melody.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone buzzes on the carpet beside him. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Unknown Contact</b>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Hi Renjun! I’m Doyoung. I’ve actually got a few spaces available. Does October 2nd work for a first lesson? We could discuss times and payment then…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
<h6>September 22nd, 2018: What You Need — <em><span>Mark</span></em>
</h6><p>
  <span>Mark makes his way to the second hand store for the second time in a week. He steps in the front door with his application clutched in his left hand and peers into what appears to be an empty shop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaehyun?” Mark calls, perhaps he’s hiding out the back again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man who steps out from behind the door is certainly </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jaehyun. And Mark takes a moment to stare back at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you Mark?” The guy says, and Mark feels no less comforted by the fact that this stranger knows his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” He says tentatively, glancing around with hopes that Jaehyun is simply hiding behind one of the shelves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guy’s face lights up, “Oh, cool! I’m Yuta, Jaehyun told me about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Right</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Mark thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yuta</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His supposed future guitar teacher</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He smiles tightly, feeling nervous, “Is Jaehyun here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s out back taking a break. He’ll be back in a couple of minutes if you just wanted to hang around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Ok.” Mark says, slowly making his way over to a box of old CDs.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries his best to keep his eyes on his hands as he sifts through the contents of the box. Most of them are dusty and look a little worse for wear. But some are honestly in pretty good condition. He makes a mental note to get a couple if he manages to get the job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaehyun tells me you’re wanting guitar lessons.” Yuta says. Mark knows he’s been watching him since they first spoke, and he’s unsure if this knowledge is unsettling or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark nods. This is getting a little weird. Or perhaps it just really isn't and Mark is the weird one in this situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah." He says tentatively. "Jaehyun said you could help me out..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta grins, and Mark wonders how he can be so comfortable around someone he just met. "Oh totally dude. What can you do already?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glancing around, Mark thinks of his new guitar sitting in his room at home. "I can do most basic chords. Um, I've tried learning scales, but I'm still a little slow."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta's eyes shine, "Oh, that's great to hear. I'm just glad you aren't a total beginner. What about chord changes, and playing with a click?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark narrows his eyes, "I can do chord changes easy enough. And I did a couple years of classical piano, so I'm pretty good at keeping time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta ducks down underneath the counter, and Mark can hear the shuffling sound of files being moved around. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"I thought I left one under here somewhere.</span>
  </em>
  <span>.." He hears Yuta mumble, and then watches with something akin to horror as Yuta literally jumps up from his hiding place, a small piece of card held loosely between his index and middle fingers. "Aha!" He says loudly, emerging from behind the counter and moving towards Mark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Definitely not the most terrifying thing that's ever happened to him, but it's definitely up there with the time that clown at the local circus decided to choose him for audience participation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is my card. Jaehyun said he gave you the flyer for The Studio, that number is for everyone there. This one's my personal. When you feel like starting lessons, literally just text me. I'll sort you out."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark thanks him profusely, then says quietly "I'd love to start soon. But I've gotta get a job first." He glances around at the store, at the dusty surfaces on vintage vanities and bookshelves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta nods, watching him with assessing eyes. There's a beat of silence, and then Yuta says, "Look Mark. You seem like a good kid, I can tell you're genuinely interested in music. I don't have any doubts about you getting the job, Taeil's literally gonna love you. But even so, If you can't get the money, or you're ever having trouble with funding. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Let me know.</span>
  </em>
  <span> God knows that Jae and I were in the same spot as you a few years ago."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark stares at him open mouthed. Lips opening and closing like a blasted goldfish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the door to the store is opening with a loud jingling sound and Jaehyun's standing there with a great big smile on his face and a small paper parcel in his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mark!" He says, and Mark's utterly confused as to why Jaehyun seems so happy to see him. Perhaps it's another case of Mark being the weird one here. Jaehyun lifts his package slightly, "I got your strings!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses them firmly into Mark's palm and smiles at him before walking towards the counter. "Have you got your application?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark blinks slowly. Then pats at his pockets until finding the right one, retrieving a wrinkled piece of paper and unfolding it slowly. "Sorry it's so untidy." He mutters apologetically as he hands the page over to Jaehyun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaehyun waves a hand dismissively. "Taeil won't care, don't worry about it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Taeil?" Mark asks curiously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Our boss." Yuta pipes in helpfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He'll let you know about shifts and stuff." Jaehyun finishes, pulling a clearfile from somewhere on the counter. He tucks the application inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, Mark leaves with a baffled sort of expression on his face and a brand new set of strings in hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Mark!” Yuta calls as he begins to step away from the store, “Let me know if you need a hand changing those.” He points at the package in Mark’s hand. “It isn’t too hard when you know how to do it. I can teach you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Mark says slowly, he still doesn’t understand why they’re being so nice to him. “That’d actually be great. Thank you so much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok, Mark. Text me!” And then he’s slipping back inside the store and letting the door fall shut behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark stares at the empty doorway for a moment before turning away and flipping the packet of strings over in his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he gets home later than expected and his mother asks where he’s been, he tells her some casual lie about staying afterschool for student council. It makes his palms itch, but he uses that energy to practice his scales. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to be at least semi-decent if Yuta agrees to teach him. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<h6>October 2nd, 2018: Overbehind — <em><span>Renjun</span></em>
</h6><p>
  <span>Renjun's mother drops him off at The Studio for his first lesson with Doyoung. The building is old, cracking along the edges and looks like it’s ready to collapse at any minute. But his doubts are dispersed as soon as he steps inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walls are all painted a fresh cream colour and there’s brand new lampshades covering all of the exposed light bulbs along the walls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The text Doyoung sent him about his lesson location is vague, and simply reads:</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Doyoung</b>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>See you in the room at the end of the hall.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he’s thinking about it, this really seems like the beginning of a horror film. He hears footsteps behind him and subconsciously clutches the straps of his backpack tightly. His journal sits heavily in the bottom. He wasn’t sure what he needed to bring, but carrying his journal everywhere is like second nature and so it seemed fitting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The footsteps behind him get a little louder, and he breaks the number one rule of every horror movie ever. He stops in the hallway and looks behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a boy. Looking every bit as startled as he is. Soft black hair that curls a little in the middle of his forehead. He’s got a guitar case slung over his shoulder and he’s unashamedly staring back at Renjun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you.” He says finally. He narrows his eyes and then snaps his fingers, “Art and Design.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun squints at him for a second and then he sees it. Hiding behind a set of thick framed glasses is one very articulate; “Mark Lee.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark beams at him, looking a little less nervous then he had before. And Renjun —no longer fearing for his life— loosens his grip on his backpack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Renjun Huang…” Mark says, “Right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun sticks out a hand, and nearly takes it back when it feels too formal. But Mark reaches out to clasp it in his own hand before he can. “Right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark’s hands are warm despite the chill outside, and Renjun can feel the beginnings of calluses on the tips of his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you here for?” Mark says, glancing at his hands when they pull away as though looking for an instrument.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Singing lessons, was hoping to get some training that </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>choir related.” Mark lets out a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>“oh”</span>
  </em>
  <span> of understanding. “And I take it you’re here for…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gestures at the case on Mark’s back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, um. Yeah." Mark laughs nervously. "Teaching yourself isn't as easy as people on the internet make it seem."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks like he's about to say something else when Renjun hears a door opening from somewhere behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mark!" An unfamiliar voice says, and Mark's eyes light up. He lifts a hand to wave at the stranger and turns to see who he's speaking to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of one new face, he's met with two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You all ready, Mark?" One of the strangers says, and Mark nods his head. "Who's your friend?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Renjun." Says the second stranger, and Renjun feels his heart-rate increase slightly until the stranger adds, "Right? I'm Doyoung."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh." Renjun says, and sticks his hand out again. "Nice to meet you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doyoung looks down at his outstretched palm and tentatively puts his own hand into it. He looks a little confused, and Renjun </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>he's being weird. It isn't like he's trying to be, there's just maybe one too many new people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"See you, Renjun." Mark says, already following Yuta down the hallway towards another practice room. Renjun waves back despite Mark's back already being turned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doyoung smiles at him. “My room’s this way.” He keeps conversation as they walk side by side, “Do you mind me asking what you were wanting to get out of these sessions?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Renjun says, he hadn’t really thought much about what it was that he was looking for. He hums quietly, focusing intently on his feet as they walk. “I guess… I guess I wanna work on my own stuff, you know? Like— Doing choir is fine, but I wanna sing my songs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doyoung’s eyebrows lift a little, “You write songs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun nods, he feels a little heat come to rest in his cheeks. “It’s not much, but I’ve worked on a couple lyrics here and there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you bring any of them with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun shrugs his shoulders, drawing attention to his backpack. “I’ve got my journal in here. It’s not super structured or anything, but it’s where I keep all my stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s cool.” Doyoung says, stopping to pull open a practice room door and usher Renjun inside. “Would you mind if we had a look at some of them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, uh. Yeah, for sure.” Renjun says nervously. He doesn’t usually share his stuff with anyone other than his friend Dejun. And even that was after they were sworn to secrecy. He supposed he should have expected this though. He was coming here for help with this stuff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doyoung sits down at the piano. “Why don’t we start with some warm ups?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An hour passes by in a blur. Following the warm ups, Doyoung had risen from his seat at the piano and asked Renjun if he uses a piano or a guitar for songwriting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d then presented Renjun with a guitar at his request and sat down attentively watching as Renjun self-consciously pulled out his journal and turned to a page with one of the nearly finished songs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doyoung was patient, and offered helpful suggestions for lyrical changes and melodies. By the time they finished, Renjun was exhausted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got some really great stuff there, Renjun.” Doyoung had said as he’d taken back the guitar. “You’re going places kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun ducked his head as he made for the door. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious, Renjun. You’re really talented. I’ll see you next week?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun nods, resting a hand on the door handle and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, journal safely inside. “Yeah. Same time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doyoung shrugs, “If it works for you, it works for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun steps out into the hallway and closes the door firmly behind him. He’s barely taken four steps towards The Studio’s front door when another door opens in front of him. The person behind it nearly smacking into him from the side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he says, stopping in his tracks. “Hello again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit— Sorry, sorry. Are you ok?” Mark Lee says worriedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun laughs. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Mark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh." Mark says, still embarrassed, "Ok."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you waiting for a ride?" Renjun asks, and Mark hums quietly, tipping his head a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they fall into step beside each other and slowly make their way outside until they're standing under the little awning that provides little shelter from the blustery autumn weather.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark says nothing, and perhaps Renjun should think that's a little odd. But the silence it provides is not uncomfortable, and Renjun revels in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches Mark as they stand together. Takes in the slope of his nose, the gentle way his mouth moves as he breathes in frigid air. The breathy fog that clings to the lenses of his glasses. Maybe it’s a little creepy, but he can’t help but think that Mark’s beautiful, and he wonders how it is that they’ve never crossed paths like this before in three years of attending the same school. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t notice the way Mark stares back at him. Or the way Mark slips back inside the building after he gets in his mothers car. And he’s down the road and around the corner by the time Mark reemerges —skateboard in hand— and begins his journey home. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<h6> October 10th, 2018: Big Black Car — <em><span>Mark</span></em>
</h6><p>
  <span>Mark got the job. Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> he did. It was practically secured since the moment he crossed paths with Jung Jaehyun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's his fifth day on the job, and for most of his time spent at the store, it had been either Jaehyun or Yuta training him. But today was both of their days off which meant that Taeil was stepping in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark had met Taeil before. Back when he first got the job. But he'd left the task of actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>training </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mark up to his employees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and Mark had been tasked with reorganising a shelf of vinyls. They didn't tend to have many come in, and what they managed to get on the shelves was usually snatched up by teenagers relatively early on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finishes his work on the vinyls and moves back to the counter, ready to ask Taeil for something else to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re good for a bit, Mark. Honestly just grab some cleaning spray and give polish the counter. You can take a break after that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark moves to where the cleaning supplies are kept and pulls out a bottle of multi-purpose cleaning spray and a fresh green cloth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wipes down the counter carefully, and Taeil makes conversation while he sorts through a variety of folders seemingly looking for a specific piece of paper. “It’s nice that you’re so close with Jae and Yuta. They talk about you a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark’s hand stills momentarily mid-swipe. “They do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeil hums, “Oh, all the time. Yuta especially. He really thinks you’re special, Mark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark ducks his head and focuses on cleaning the counter, hoping that his blushing cheeks are hidden. “That’s nice of them. Nice of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> to say that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeil laughs gently, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>God,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you remind me of them when they were younger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark narrows his eyes, but doesn’t question it. He returns to his task and finishes it quickly. Opening the door to the backroom and taking his seat in the corner like he tends to do. There’s an old guitar out there. Nowhere near in as nice condition as his Taylor, but it’s nylon strings have been replaced enough for it to retain its tunings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark likes to use his breaks to practice his finger work. He can spend the entire fifteen minutes plucking away at the same riff over and over again, just to make sure he’s got it right. He starts out with the opening notes of the newest song Yuta had taught him, and thinks back to the day before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally getting that riff right in one try. Walking out of that practice room and waiting in the rain with Renjun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still not sure why he did it the first time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or the second time for that matter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he knows that he wants to see Renjun home safe. And that he doesn’t mind waiting in the rain if it means he gets to see him a little longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His ring finger catches on one of the lower strings, drawing him back. He glances at his hands, and tries the riff again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounding good!” He hears Taeil shout from where he stands behind the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark smiles to himself, shakes his hands out and tries again. When he’s happy with it, he moves easily onto the next section of the song. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hums it under his breath when Taeil brings him out to switch out the window display. Ghosting the finger positions in the air as he goes. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<h6>October 23rd, 2018: A Phone Call In Amsterdam — <em><span>Renjun</span></em>
</h6><p>
  <span>“I have an idea.” Renjun says into his phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun hums, “Should I be concerned?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun laughs easily. Doyoung’s words from the end of his last lesson that day sound in his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’ve got a lot of great material here. A couple tweaks and changes and you could totally have an album… I was wondering though. Have you considered starting a band?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Dejun should be concerned. Perhaps this </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a terrible idea.But he supposes he’ll never know if he doesn’t try. “I wanna start a band.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun goes quiet on the other end. “Yeah?” They say after a moment, “With who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun pauses, wonders if Dejun is being dense on purpose. Then realises they need prompting, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well I’d hoped I was being included.” Renjun can practically hear Dejun rolling their eyes on the other end. “But I can only do so much. We’d need a drummer… And a bassist. Maybe some keys…. Unless you wanted to play of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Renjun says excitedly, “But I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> people. You’re friends with most of the talent at school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun scoffs, “So I’m here to be what… A talent scout?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Renjun says quickly, then after a moment's consideration, “Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christs’ sake.” Dejun says, “You owe me </span>
  <em>
    <span>big time.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything you want, </span>
  <em>
    <span>darling</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Renjun drawls into the phone, he’s balancing it on his shoulder now, and speaking into it while he scribbles into his journal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you’ll regret that.” Dejun says devilishly, and Renjun believes them, “Did you have anyone in mind already?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need Yangyang on drums. I don’t care if I have to bribe him with Chem homework for the rest of the semester, but I’m not going to try to start a band with a useless drummer.” Renjun says, making a messy note of this in his journal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Noted. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>can talk to him because that one's easy.” Dejun says, and Renjun knows they’re probably making notes of their own. “Anything else, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Your Highness?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I suppose so." Renjun says, he glances at his fingernails and feels like one of those girls in teen movies. "I don't wanna play piano."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun hums, "Right, well. What are your thoughts on Chenle Zhong?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Seems nice enough. Why?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Amazing</span>
  </em>
  <span> Pianist." Dejun's voice seems far away, and Renjun knows they're trapped up in their head considering all of the options. It's probably why he wants Dejun to be the one to help with this. "Don't know about his contemporary efforts, but I reckon I could ask him to try..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, and one last thing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun groans, "What is it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I want you to sing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I want you to sing with me. Or backing vocals </span>
  <em>
    <span>at least.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun is quiet on the other end and Renjun wonders whether he's over stepped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ren..." Dejun begins, and he sounds weary, "I don't– Hell, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't </span>
  </em>
  <span>sing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes you can."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Dejun insists, and it seems like they're far away again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What if I asked Doyoung to help you out a little? Because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>you can."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're gonna keep pushing this, aren't you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yep!" Renjun says, and he's certain that his smile is reaching through the phone. Dejun groans again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I hate you so much."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Love you too</span>
  </em>
  <span>." It feels nice to have the upper hand for once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that rug is shortly pulled out from under his feet when Dejun flips the conversation on it's head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All this talk of musicians has got me thinking about one Mark Lee." Dejun says slyly, "How is </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> these days?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun hisses into his phone. Telling Dejun about his mild infatuation with Mark was definitely a poor decision on his behalf. But it isn't like he can take it back now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know." Renjun says through gritted teeth, "Why don't you ask him yourself?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But Ren, </span>
  <em>
    <span>darling."</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dejun's having far too much fun with this, "It's so much more entertaining to put you through this. Besides, didn't you see him today?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun hums noncommittally. Choosing instead to stay silent so that Dejun won't have anything more to lord over his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun continues with little regard for whether he responds or not, and continues on his little speech. "So you two didn't wait together after your lesson? Shame, I thought that was becoming like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> you guys did."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut up," Renjun says, heat rising to his cheeks in volumes. He's just glad Dejun can't see his expression right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why?" Dejun says, and Renjun can </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear</span>
  </em>
  <span> the beaming smile that's likely glued itself to his face. "I'm just curious."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I hate you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Love you too, Ren." Dejun says, "Get some sleep, I'll talk to some guys about the band, ok? This is gonna be fun."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, yeah." Renjun says, grabbing his journal and dropping himself unceremoniously into his bed. He's glad that the attention's been taken away from Mark, but his face is still warm as he says, "Thank you, Jun. It means a lot."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know, Ren. I'll see you tomorrow."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun ends the call and drops his phone onto the pillow beside him. He'll regret not charging it tomorrow but his eyes are falling shut with every moment that passes. And he falls asleep thinking of enormous stages and boys with fluffy black hair and circular glasses.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<h6>November 13th, 2018: Enough to Know You — <em><span>Mark</span></em>
</h6><p>
  <span>Yuta notices it first. In the short time he’s known the guy, he’s become less of a guitar tutor and more of an older brother. It’s a Tuesday afternoon and he’d had a cancellation for his next lesson. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He poked his head in one of the practice room doors, finding it odd that the door was open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spotting Mark’s skateboard leant up against the wall, he knew something was up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mark…” He starts easily at the beginning of their next lesson, “What do you do after our lessons?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark freezes, he’d been crouched over his battered guitar case with the zipper only half undone. He buffers for a moment, heart catching in his chest before he finally manages a quiet, “Why do you ask?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta shrugs, pulling out his own guitar easily and checking the tuning knobs. “Found your skateboard in one of the practice rooms last week,” He fixes Mark with a coy smile, “You should really invite me if you’re gonna smoke out back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Mark’s eyes go comically wide, he stammers, “What?! No– I don’t– I’m not–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses as Yuta laughs at him, his head tips back and the wide beaming smile on his face seems to glow, “Yeah Markie. No offense, but I didn’t think you were into that stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark’s caught in a weird space between relief and almost-offence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” He says simply, lost for words. His hands move cautiously back to the zip on his guitar case, and for a second, he thinks Yuta’s dropped the matter entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Markie.” Yuta says evenly, “What do you really do after our lessons? Because I was chatting with Doyoung and he says his student goes to your school. Mighty convenient that you both finish the same time isn’t it...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta waggles his eyebrows, fixing Mark with a look that seems to say he thinks Mark has more “</span>
  <em>
    <span>game”</span>
  </em>
  <span> than he thought him capable of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? No! We’re friends. I just—“ Mark can feel the way his cheeks burn, he’s definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> helping his case here. He hangs his head, “I don’t know… I just wanna make sure he gets home safe.” Then more quietly he adds, “And it’s nice talking to him…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta smirks, a concerning smile that’s almost bordering on psychopathic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark stares back at him, hand curling tightly around the neck of his guitar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does Markie have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>crush</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark hates that word. It seems pathetic, like his feelings are childish and useless. And he knows that deep down he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> treating this like a middle-schooler. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of Renjun. Of the weird cumulative storm of feelings he’s conjured up. It’s really all quite a royal fuck-up on his end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d never meant to get so attached. But Renjun just had this way about him. When he pressed his hands deep into his coat pockets in the colder months, or blew his fringe out of his eyes when he was trying to focus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d been partnered a few times in Art class, and Mark had always taken far more interest in Renjun than any of the projects they’d been assigned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta suddenly snaps his fingers in front of Mark’s face. “You good, dude?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark nods dumbly, bringing himself back to the practice room. He takes his seat in the chair across from Yuta, setting his guitar in his lap and curls his fingers around the neck of the guitar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mark…” Yuta says again after a few moments of silence, “I’m sorry if I pushed that one too far, but you know you can talk to me about this shit, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark nods, he brings a hand up to his mouth and turns to look Yuta in the eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” he says, and he’s surprised to find that he means it, “I just wanna know how you worked it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta’s expression softens, and his eyes crease up at the edges, betraying his amusement. “Oh, Markie,” He says, almost sympathetically, “You’re obvious as hell. He’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>twice</span>
  </em>
  <span> as oblivious as you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark's mouth drops open, but Yuta pushes onwards, drawing his attention instead to a new riff he wants Mark to learn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the end of the lesson, when Mark waits out in the lobby, he can’t help but notice himself being less talkative. Renjun notices it too, Mark can see it in the curious way he looks back at him when he only lets out quiet hums in responses to questions he otherwise would have given long extensive answers to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark rubs his hands together. Drags the calloused tips of his fingers across the knuckles of his other hand. When Renjun’s mother comes to pick him up, Mark waves awkwardly, and Renjun smiles at him easily. Routine. Simple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark’s damn feelings just had to go and mess that up. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<h6>November 20th, 2018: Youuu — <em><span>Renjun</span></em>
</h6><p>
  <span>Renjun realises that his feelings for Mark definitely cross the line between platonic and… something more, one afternoon in the lobby. They’re huddled together under the shelter. He’d forgotten his gloves again, and a blustery rainstorm had swept in at some point during his lesson. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark takes one look at Renjun’s hands, currently stretching out the sleeves of his shirt to cover them, and unravels the scarf from his neck. He wraps it around Renjun’s hands, creating some kind of makeshift cover against the cold. It does the trick, and Renjun stares after him quietly as Mark steps away. His lips are slightly chapped, and his breath swirls out in twirly clouds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun imagines pushing his fingers through the hair at the back of Mark’s head, pulling him in close and taking those chapped lips between his teeth. He flushes at the thought, grateful that Mark is looking the other way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to talk about school instead, asking Mark if he’d finished the most recent project for their art class. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe this wasn’t the smartest decision, seeing as Mark takes to the topic with wide glittering eyes. Renjun is left speechless in the wake of such passion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh yeah. He’s fucked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother manages to pull up just before he can say something idiotic and embarrass himself. He waves to Mark out the car window as she drives away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh dude,” Dejun says through the phone later that night, “Seriously, just tell him you think he’s cute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t do that.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Renjun hisses, the idea is ridiculous. He’s got nowhere near the confidence to try something like that, “He’ll think I’m crazy or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun laughs at him through the phone. “I’m just saying, dude. I think you’ve gotta at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun shakes his head, then realises that Dejun can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>see him. “I– Fuck, I don’t even know if he likes guys.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun hums, “True. But you’ll never know if you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>ask.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What am I even supposed to say?! ‘Oh, Hey Mark. I know we only ever talk after music lessons and we barely ever see each other at school. But do you like boys? Because I have a massive fucking crush on you.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun snorts, “Well that’s certainly a start. Maybe something a little less blunt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck you.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Renjun says and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t– Fuck, I can’t do this, Jun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ok, Dude. Just be his friend.” Dejun says, and then adds, “Spend the rest of the year pining over him. You know. Hot girl shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Renjun says again. Seriously considering hitting the big red button at the bottom of this screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun beats him to it, “Love you, Dude. I’ll see you at practice.” They say quickly, before ending the call. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun lies awake. There’s a weird feeling settled in his stomach, and he finds himself thinking of Mark again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ, Mark Lee.” He whispers to no one in particular, dragging a weary hand over his face. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<h6>December 16th, 2018: If We’re Being Honest — <em><span>Mark</span></em>
</h6><p>
  <span>“Markie!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta greets him at the door. It was a mission to even get here, having to provide his parents with yet another excuse —something incredibly inconspicuous along the lines of staying at Kevin’s for the night to study. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just a little get together for everyone who took some form of residence at The Studio. Mark had spotted a couple of the other students and regulars outside when he’d arrived.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Studio’s been done up for the occasion, fairy lights hung in the hallways, different glittery streamers pinned over door frames.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Yuta.” Mark’s unreasonably nervous, and twists his hands together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta smiles at him, and Mark feels himself relax, if only just a little. “Drinks are in the staffroom, so help yourself. And uhhh, I think Renjun and some of the other guys were hanging out in the performance room if you wanted to go see them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh–” Mark says shortly, “Ok.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta pats his shoulder gently, “Come find me if you need anything dude, I’ll be around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he’s gone again, disappearing off to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>proper</span>
  </em>
  <span> host, at a </span>
  <em>
    <span>proper</span>
  </em>
  <span> party and Mark’s honestly feeling a little overwhelmed. Maybe he should have just gone to Kevin’s place to study instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanders into the performance room, hoping to find someone. Renjun’s sitting on one of the couches along the walls, surrounded by Yukhei and Dejun. Mark knows that Dejun’s been taking lessons from Yuta, and Yukhei’s been learning bass from Jaehyun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them turn to face him when he arrives and Renjun’s face lights up. “Hi Mark.” He says, and Mark thinks he could die right then and there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yukhei lifts a hand to wave at him, and Dejun greets him with a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a beat, and then Dejun’s expression shifts, a smile turning into a grin that’s a little too devious for Mark’s liking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Renjun– Mark doesn’t have a drink, maybe you should go show him where they are.” They say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun’s head turns sharply, eyes fixing on his friend’s in a heartbeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I think I’m ok…” Mark pipes in helpfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dejun takes no notice, pushing Renjun up off the seat. “I really think you should, Renjun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wink at him, a wildly overemphasized action. And maybe if Mark weren't so nervous, he’d realise the connotations of the whole encounter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun glares at Dejun, before turning to face Mark with a dazzling smile. “Come on, Mark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leads the way out, and Mark —trying his best to seem like he isn’t head over heels— follows behind in a heartbeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they get back from the kitchen, the couch is empty, and so is the performance room. Renjun sighs, and then takes a shaky breath, dropping to reclaim his seat on the couch. He pats the space beside him and Mark takes it easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s easy when they don’t think about it too hard. It’s just like those afternoons spent out in the cold after lessons and they find themselves falling into that same foolproof rhythm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A few refills later and they’re sitting next to each other on the couch. Mark’s clutching what must be his third drink of the evening. Renjun’s pressed up against him, thighs and shoulders touching and he’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>goddamn </span>
  </em>
  <span>warm. Mark just wants to melt into him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun’s looking at him. Mark can see it in the slight tilt of his head. In the way the slope of his nose is turned towards him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe if Mark weren’t so afraid, he’d say something. Turn to face Renjun and tell him exactly how he feels. But he settles for silence, choosing to fix his eyes on the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifts his cup to his mouth and downs most of it. He can feel the way Renjun’s eyes land on his throat as he swallows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes pass —enough time for Mark to realise that perhaps he’s had more than </span>
  <em>
    <span>three</span>
  </em>
  <span> drinks tonight. He feels warm, the flush covering his cheeks spreading down his chest. It settles somewhere behind his rib cage, beating and strong behind bars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun stays in his place beside him. Lifting his own cup to his mouth slowly, taking small sips every now and again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Renjun Huang will be the death of him. Perhaps he’s ok with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a while. It’s quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mark?” Renjun says softly, and Mark turns quickly to face him, only to find him inches away. His head feels a little cloudy, turning so quickly sending it spinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Renjun?” He mumbles, eyes darting down to focus on Renjun’s mouth. Lips slightly parted, his tongue darts out to wet his top lip. And perhaps that’s what sends Mark over the edge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t remember moving forwards, or closing the gap between them. It’s only when his mouth is firmly planted on Renjun’s that he realises what’s happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Renjun goes rigid, and when Mark pulls away sharply, there’s a startled sort of look in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark doesn’t need to be told he’s crossed a line, and he pushes up off the couch, muttering every iteration of an apology he can manage. His words are jumbled and he feels like everything is falling apart. A carefully constructed world crumbling into tiny fragments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He all but runs from the room, pushing past someone bodily as he goes, hissing out a breathless apology. He finds a bathroom, and promptly locks himself inside, leaning back against the wall and sliding down it until he hits the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tucks his feet up underneath him and crosses his arms on top, dropping his head to rest in a nest of self-loathing. He sucks in a few shaky breaths, heart racing at a million miles an hour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a knock at the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Markie?” Someone says, and Mark sighs with relief at the voice on the other side, “Everything alright in there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah– Yep.” Mark sas as enthusiastically as he can manage, but he knows that Yuta hears the wavering change in his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mark,” Yuta starts slowly, voice slightly muffled by the door separating them, “Please tell me you aren’t throwing up in there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No– I’m not–” Mark laughs nervously, definitely not helping his case, “I’m– I’m fine, Yuta.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s paired with a strange sort of sobbing sound, and Mark knows that Yuta won’t let it slide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you let me in, Mark? You seemed really freaked when you ran past before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark curses under his breath, “Really because I think I’m– I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door handle begins to turn, and Mark thanks the foresight he had to lock the door. The handle shakes when Yuta realises it’s locked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mark if you don’t open this door, I’m calling your parents.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Mark knows, deep down, that Yuta wouldn’t really, but with a threat like that looming over his head, all he can do is reach over and flip the lock open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta opens the door cautiously. Sticks his head around the corner and peers at Mark. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What’s going on? Believe it or not, this isn’t actually a sit-on-the-bathroom-floor-and-cry kind of party.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s then that Mark realises he might be crying. He swipes a hand across his face. What he thought was warmth in his cheeks from the alcohol, actually turns out to be two twin tear tracks, and he rubs at his eyes hastily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” He says with a sniff, and Yuta frowns at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps into the bathroom, shuts the door behind him, and crouches down in front of Mark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you wanna talk about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark shakes his head, “I think— </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I fucked up, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> badly dude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta slings an arm around his shoulders, pulls him in and drags neon green painted fingernails through Mark’s hair. “Oh dear, Markie. What are we gonna do now?”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1Ch8ONTSx1sNH1j7JdGCgF?si=WWWPsO03SWaRKBCQsDvmVw">Heart!Breaker Playlist</a><br/><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6NT25hHToMoJupRZf3yhpF?si=bhDNoQVLS2y2q4ugNM7PUA">Mark's Playlist</a><br/><a href="https://twitter.com/thekeehorse">twt</a><br/>• <a href="https://curiouscat.me/ghoulhwa">cc</a><br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>